Where I come from we have this tradition and deep seeded religious belief that February 29th, the extra day of every leap year, is very special. Like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Arbor Day, February 29th is accompanied by it’s own set of mystical beliefs, and outré traditions. The belief is that on the 29th the eyes of heaven are closed and the people of the world are unattended and basically unaccountable for anything they do that day. Needless to say the 29th soon became a day of revelry, lasciviousness, gluttony, horseplay, tomfoolery, bally-hoo, hijinks, buffoonery, capers, shenanigans, and overall unwonted behavior.
Now, some people would argue that bad, or immoral behavior deterred only by fear of the stick, is callow, and is at the lowest level of self-governance. While some would say, that righteousness due to external incentives is not righteousness, Others would say, “No ones watching?! YAHOO!!”
If you were previously unaware of this unique holiday allow me to illustrate just what you’ve been missing out on.
In 1980, when I was two, and still a bit of a novice, I pulled off my diaper, unbeknownst to my parents, and crapped myself silly. Looking back, it seems more like a vicious prank on myself as much as anyone else.
1984; Some other first graders and I took a carton of eggs and a balloon launcher and shot eggs at cars on the freeway. Unfortunately four people lost their lives that day. Fortunately, they were all pretty old and on their way out anyway.
1988; I joined a PETA youth group and helped them burn down a facility that was doing medical tests on animals. The screams that came from the animals that we forgot to un-cage still haunt my dreams.
1992; I leaked a story to the LA Times that the 29th of February had been moved to the 29th of April. Some uninformed Americans still believe that the LA riots were a result of the acquittal of the white police officers that beat Rodney King like a piñata, instead of the truth, which is, they were just enjoying the regular celebratory rights of the 29th.
1996; I verbally supported Bill Clinton all day.
2000; I went to Vegas, got a job, and danced with the Chippendales for the whole night. Financially it was time well spent because, aside from my wages, I made $68.94 in tips. (Admittedly, it’s a little awkward dancing with 94 cents clinking around in the sling area of one’s Speedo.)
2004; I had a hard time enjoying the 29th that year because, unlike previous years, I was married to someone who cracks an even bigger whip than the Man upstairs. So, it was pretty much a let down.
This year I reclaimed my independence. I got up, took off my son’s diaper, and then left for work. I later found out from my wife that he’s doing his part to carry on my legacy.
I hope you all had an eventful 29th. Only four more years ‘till we get to do it again.
Showing posts with label Devil. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Devil. Show all posts
Friday, February 29, 2008
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Room 116
My curiosity got the best of me and now I’ll probably be dead before the sun rises. I’m writing this in a motel room in Missouri. I have been here on business the past few days and am without wife or child and get reasonably lonely in the evenings and so I thought I might take myself to dinner and a show. Why not, I said to me. I’m good company and have been meaning to get to know me a bit better.
Skipping forward in time; so there I was, appetite satiated, standing before the box office of one of Springfield’s picture-show houses.
“One for 1408.” I naively said to the box office employee.
As it turns out 1408 is Stephen King’s new movie about a haunted hotel room that no one makes it out of alive. Now, when I bought the ticket I forgot to consider two major factors. 1) I scare easier than a six-year-old girl. (The sequel to Wizard of Oz still has me terrified of monkeys AND roller-blades, and especially monkeys ON roller-blades.) AND 2) After the movie I would have to go back to my motel room… alone.
Right when I return to the room and walk in I know something is wrong. Evil is here. And because I’m crap-myself scared right now and can’t sleep, I decided to write all night just in case I wake up dead. That way my loved ones will know what happened to me.
11:35 pm
The air conditioner sounds like ghost howling. I try to shut it off but to know avail. It’s stuck on full fan.
11:50
The evil air conditioner won’t let me sleep so I turn on the TV to distract me but it clicks several times before coming on. Not mechanical clicks you might hear when turning on an old tube TV that needs to warm up before use, but a poltergeist or maybe a possessed-midget-who-is-stuck-inside-and-trying-to-get-out kind of click. M.A.S.H. is on but the sound isn’t coming from the TV like it’s supposed to. Instead it’s coming from my own brain. It’s like that dream I have where I’m on stage singing “Welcome to the Jungle” and I know all the words. I’m freaking out because I’ve never watched more than a few minutes of M.A.S.H. due to the fact that it’s not nearly as funny as people born before 1975 claim it is.
12:27 am
I started to drift off to sleep but was startled back to full consciousness by the sound of a baby crying. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, but it’s unnerving. I hate it when the Devil uses children against us.
12:42
I’ve put tissue in my ears in an attempt to drown out the baby and the AC unit. But now the TV has come back on and the only thing on is the same episode of M.A.S.H. that was on before. I turn the channel and realize it’s on every channel and now the TV won’t shut off.
1:20
All three noises climb to an unbearable climax so I try again to shut off the AC unit. No luck. I’m writhing from the auditory assault and in a fit of desperation I grab the desk lamp and smash the AC unit to pieces.
2:41
The AC unit is quieter now though it is still clinging to life with a pitch-fluctuating whirring sound. The crying of the baby is on the brink of making my ears bleed. I bang on the walls and scream “FEED THAT BABY!” The crying doesn’t stop but now there is someone behind every wall banging and screaming “FEED THAT BABY!”
3:15
I’m lying at the end of the bed, ear to the mattress with a pillow pressed firmly against my other ear. Something catches my eye. The handle on the bureau drawer moved ever so slightly. Hesitantly I move toward the drawer to investigate. I pull it out in one quick yank and without warning an angry piglet leaps from the drawer and hooves me to the ground with one powerful blow to the chest. He lands on me with all the fury of a Christmas ham, beating me mercilessly about the face and head with his fore hooves.
5:05
I must have blacked out because I just woke on the floor in a pool of blood I can only assume came from my nose and mouth. I crane my neck quickly in anticipation of another attack from Beelzepig. It is nowhere to be seen but I lay there a minute to be sure.
5:06
Just when I’m about to get up I hear a blood curdling squeal and look up to see the swine flying over the bed toward my face. This time I react by spinning to the side while reaching for the animal as it flies past. I snagged one of its rear legs. I keep spinning so to use the centrifugal force to keep his teeth away from my kill zones. When I don’t think I can spin any faster I release and watch the un-kosher terror fly headfirst into the T.V. thus ending his life and M.A.S.H. with one big electrical crash.
5:10
I’m really upset now because I’m usually pretty good with animals and only like to kill them for food… or sport… or as punishment to a neighbor who has wronged me.
5:46
I gather my wits and go to the bathroom to wash the bacon grease and blood from my hands. I scrub and scrub and never feel clean. When I dry my hands I realize that the cheap motel soap has made my eczema flare up. I’m in Hell!
5:53
I search high and low for some kind of ointment or lotion to sooth my dry itching hands but nothing.
6:10
I punch the bathroom mirror in frustration and shatter it. Now my hand is throbbing and bleeding heavily. I curse my stupidity but fail to learn from my mistakes and illustrate this by punching a pile of broken glass with my other hand. Crap.
6:14
My brain cracks and I loose it. I’ve never taken any martial arts classes but my rage doesn’t care. I kick and smash and do some major Jean-Claude Van Damage. I even pull the pig from the TV and use it as a club to beat the room to pieces.
6:57
Everything is destroyed, including the pig.
7:00
The guy I’m traveling with knocks on my door. Shaking from nerve wrecked hysteria and exhaustion I answer. He notices the blood on the walls, the smashed furniture and AC unit, the pig, and asks what happened.
7:35
I check out at the front desk and lodge a serious complaint with the manager.
7:36
Manager hands me certificate for “1 Free Nights Stay” at any Hampton Inn in the country.
7:37
I forgive the Hampton Inn and am looking forward to my next stay.
Skipping forward in time; so there I was, appetite satiated, standing before the box office of one of Springfield’s picture-show houses.
“One for 1408.” I naively said to the box office employee.
As it turns out 1408 is Stephen King’s new movie about a haunted hotel room that no one makes it out of alive. Now, when I bought the ticket I forgot to consider two major factors. 1) I scare easier than a six-year-old girl. (The sequel to Wizard of Oz still has me terrified of monkeys AND roller-blades, and especially monkeys ON roller-blades.) AND 2) After the movie I would have to go back to my motel room… alone.
Right when I return to the room and walk in I know something is wrong. Evil is here. And because I’m crap-myself scared right now and can’t sleep, I decided to write all night just in case I wake up dead. That way my loved ones will know what happened to me.
11:35 pm
The air conditioner sounds like ghost howling. I try to shut it off but to know avail. It’s stuck on full fan.
11:50
The evil air conditioner won’t let me sleep so I turn on the TV to distract me but it clicks several times before coming on. Not mechanical clicks you might hear when turning on an old tube TV that needs to warm up before use, but a poltergeist or maybe a possessed-midget-who-is-stuck-inside-and-trying-to-get-out kind of click. M.A.S.H. is on but the sound isn’t coming from the TV like it’s supposed to. Instead it’s coming from my own brain. It’s like that dream I have where I’m on stage singing “Welcome to the Jungle” and I know all the words. I’m freaking out because I’ve never watched more than a few minutes of M.A.S.H. due to the fact that it’s not nearly as funny as people born before 1975 claim it is.
12:27 am
I started to drift off to sleep but was startled back to full consciousness by the sound of a baby crying. I can’t tell where it’s coming from, but it’s unnerving. I hate it when the Devil uses children against us.
12:42
I’ve put tissue in my ears in an attempt to drown out the baby and the AC unit. But now the TV has come back on and the only thing on is the same episode of M.A.S.H. that was on before. I turn the channel and realize it’s on every channel and now the TV won’t shut off.
1:20
All three noises climb to an unbearable climax so I try again to shut off the AC unit. No luck. I’m writhing from the auditory assault and in a fit of desperation I grab the desk lamp and smash the AC unit to pieces.
2:41
The AC unit is quieter now though it is still clinging to life with a pitch-fluctuating whirring sound. The crying of the baby is on the brink of making my ears bleed. I bang on the walls and scream “FEED THAT BABY!” The crying doesn’t stop but now there is someone behind every wall banging and screaming “FEED THAT BABY!”
3:15
I’m lying at the end of the bed, ear to the mattress with a pillow pressed firmly against my other ear. Something catches my eye. The handle on the bureau drawer moved ever so slightly. Hesitantly I move toward the drawer to investigate. I pull it out in one quick yank and without warning an angry piglet leaps from the drawer and hooves me to the ground with one powerful blow to the chest. He lands on me with all the fury of a Christmas ham, beating me mercilessly about the face and head with his fore hooves.
5:05
I must have blacked out because I just woke on the floor in a pool of blood I can only assume came from my nose and mouth. I crane my neck quickly in anticipation of another attack from Beelzepig. It is nowhere to be seen but I lay there a minute to be sure.
5:06
Just when I’m about to get up I hear a blood curdling squeal and look up to see the swine flying over the bed toward my face. This time I react by spinning to the side while reaching for the animal as it flies past. I snagged one of its rear legs. I keep spinning so to use the centrifugal force to keep his teeth away from my kill zones. When I don’t think I can spin any faster I release and watch the un-kosher terror fly headfirst into the T.V. thus ending his life and M.A.S.H. with one big electrical crash.
5:10
I’m really upset now because I’m usually pretty good with animals and only like to kill them for food… or sport… or as punishment to a neighbor who has wronged me.
5:46
I gather my wits and go to the bathroom to wash the bacon grease and blood from my hands. I scrub and scrub and never feel clean. When I dry my hands I realize that the cheap motel soap has made my eczema flare up. I’m in Hell!
5:53
I search high and low for some kind of ointment or lotion to sooth my dry itching hands but nothing.
6:10
I punch the bathroom mirror in frustration and shatter it. Now my hand is throbbing and bleeding heavily. I curse my stupidity but fail to learn from my mistakes and illustrate this by punching a pile of broken glass with my other hand. Crap.
6:14
My brain cracks and I loose it. I’ve never taken any martial arts classes but my rage doesn’t care. I kick and smash and do some major Jean-Claude Van Damage. I even pull the pig from the TV and use it as a club to beat the room to pieces.
6:57
Everything is destroyed, including the pig.
7:00
The guy I’m traveling with knocks on my door. Shaking from nerve wrecked hysteria and exhaustion I answer. He notices the blood on the walls, the smashed furniture and AC unit, the pig, and asks what happened.
7:35
I check out at the front desk and lodge a serious complaint with the manager.
7:36
Manager hands me certificate for “1 Free Nights Stay” at any Hampton Inn in the country.
7:37
I forgive the Hampton Inn and am looking forward to my next stay.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
My Daughter and The Devil
Before my daughter, Maggie, was a year old Satan came to my house and recruited her. I say “recruited” as if it were for an important position but I get the impression Hell has a lot of rungs in its hierarchical ladder and Satan takes a personal interest in his employees on every level. Not to say she’s not capable of moving up but she’s not even two and has to prove herself - so for now I think she is working at the level of minion. My wife, in typical mother fashion, is naïve enough to think her kid is the only one not in league with the Great Satan. I have tried to tell my wife that our daughter works for Satan but she won’t hear it. "How can someone so cute possibly work for Satan?" she asks while twirling one of Maggie’s pigtails with her index finger. Never mind the fact that right after she asks this absurd question Maggie deliberately dumps the very glass of juice that she begged for on the floor and then has the nerve to say “uh-oh” as if someone walked up and knocked it out of her hands.
The actual employment started a little less than a year ago…
One night while lying in bed thinking about nothing in particular I heard a noise coming from Maggie’s room. I got up with the intention of discovering the cause of said noise, but when I got to Maggie’s closed door something stopped me before I opened it. There was a vaporous red light emanating from the crack beneath her door. Now, from my extensive film experience (watching not producing) I knew this meant one of two things. Either she was in there basking in the red glow of a lava lamp while sharing tokes on a bong with her pals, OR Satan was in there recruiting her for his work.
Irritated by both possible scenarios, I burst into the room to find no bong, no pals, but Satan, standing there smiling at my daughter. The most troubling thing, besides the fact that Lucifer himself was in my house, was that Maggie too was standing. I noticed that Satan had a document that he rolled as he laughed in my face and at that moment I realized what had happened. Maggie had sold her soul for the gift of mobility. (Just so you understand, the curse wasn’t that she could walk but that she could walk before she could reason.) As I screamed revenge I leaped for the throat of Satan but narrowly missed as he dropped into a fiery hole, which I can only assume led to Hell because we don’t have a basement. As I cursed Lucifer’s name salty sweat dripped from my forehead into my eyes and woke me. It had all been a dream. My heart was still racing when I wiped the sweat from my eyes and sighed relief. "Thanks to all that is holy, Maggie is still a crawler." The moments that followed were filled with thoughts of the flawed development of the human body and mind. Why does nature or God allow us to develop basic motor skills before we can understand simple instruction or expressions like “no” or “stop unrolling every inch of toilet paper we own or we’ll adopt you to a family someplace like West Virginia where they still use outhouses and wipe their butts with squirrels, you don’t even wipe your own butt anyway, what do you need fifty feet of toilet paper for?” As I tiredly considered this enigma I attempted to readjust my position and go back to sleep by turning on my side and putting a pillow between my knees like a pregnant woman when I heard a bump. This time the noise was real. Paternal instinct took over and my feet hit the carpet and were already moving to investigate before I had the chance to think what I was doing. Like in my dream my search led to Maggie’s door and without pausing I opened it and stepped in. Just then surreal slapped my face and brought me fully awake. Maggie was standing in the middle of the room. I looked at her but couldn’t move or speak. She returned the empty stare in kind. The motionless deadpan staring contest continued for an unnatural length. The silence was only finally broken by the tiniest splash. It was a drop of ink hitting the floor. That’s when my eyes shifted and I noticed the feather quill in her right hand. My heart sank when I realized I was too late. The deal was done. Satan had already come and gone and I wasn’t there to stop him. My paralysis finally gave way and I slowly walked over and picked up the books Maggie had just pushed to the floor. I then moved to her and took the quill from her hand that, of course, disappeared in a poof of smoke. Again I looked down at her and her at me, but this time a smile broke across her face, and my heart went from sinking to melting. Sure she was now working for the Dark Lord, but she was still my daughter. I gathered her up in my arms, kissed her forehead, and set her back in her bed with the admonition to stay there till morning, which no doubt fell on deaf ears, and then returned to bed myself.
It has been nearly a year since the incident and not many nights have passed that she hasn’t ended up in mine and my wife’s bed in the middle of the night, and there isn’t anything in our house less than three feet from the ground that hasn’t been pulled to the floor or covered in whatever she was supposed to be eating, but that is the way of things. I understand that we, the parents, are the ones to blame; always encouraging them as they move from one stage to the next – rolling, crawling, walking – cheering them on along the way. However I should say that as she has learned we too have learned some lessons and we won’t be making the same mistake again. Our month old son will stay strapped on his back till he can communicate and understand, and we’ll not be dissuade by tears, screaming, or bedsores.
Stick that in your pipe and smoke it Satan.
The actual employment started a little less than a year ago…
One night while lying in bed thinking about nothing in particular I heard a noise coming from Maggie’s room. I got up with the intention of discovering the cause of said noise, but when I got to Maggie’s closed door something stopped me before I opened it. There was a vaporous red light emanating from the crack beneath her door. Now, from my extensive film experience (watching not producing) I knew this meant one of two things. Either she was in there basking in the red glow of a lava lamp while sharing tokes on a bong with her pals, OR Satan was in there recruiting her for his work.
Irritated by both possible scenarios, I burst into the room to find no bong, no pals, but Satan, standing there smiling at my daughter. The most troubling thing, besides the fact that Lucifer himself was in my house, was that Maggie too was standing. I noticed that Satan had a document that he rolled as he laughed in my face and at that moment I realized what had happened. Maggie had sold her soul for the gift of mobility. (Just so you understand, the curse wasn’t that she could walk but that she could walk before she could reason.) As I screamed revenge I leaped for the throat of Satan but narrowly missed as he dropped into a fiery hole, which I can only assume led to Hell because we don’t have a basement. As I cursed Lucifer’s name salty sweat dripped from my forehead into my eyes and woke me. It had all been a dream. My heart was still racing when I wiped the sweat from my eyes and sighed relief. "Thanks to all that is holy, Maggie is still a crawler." The moments that followed were filled with thoughts of the flawed development of the human body and mind. Why does nature or God allow us to develop basic motor skills before we can understand simple instruction or expressions like “no” or “stop unrolling every inch of toilet paper we own or we’ll adopt you to a family someplace like West Virginia where they still use outhouses and wipe their butts with squirrels, you don’t even wipe your own butt anyway, what do you need fifty feet of toilet paper for?” As I tiredly considered this enigma I attempted to readjust my position and go back to sleep by turning on my side and putting a pillow between my knees like a pregnant woman when I heard a bump. This time the noise was real. Paternal instinct took over and my feet hit the carpet and were already moving to investigate before I had the chance to think what I was doing. Like in my dream my search led to Maggie’s door and without pausing I opened it and stepped in. Just then surreal slapped my face and brought me fully awake. Maggie was standing in the middle of the room. I looked at her but couldn’t move or speak. She returned the empty stare in kind. The motionless deadpan staring contest continued for an unnatural length. The silence was only finally broken by the tiniest splash. It was a drop of ink hitting the floor. That’s when my eyes shifted and I noticed the feather quill in her right hand. My heart sank when I realized I was too late. The deal was done. Satan had already come and gone and I wasn’t there to stop him. My paralysis finally gave way and I slowly walked over and picked up the books Maggie had just pushed to the floor. I then moved to her and took the quill from her hand that, of course, disappeared in a poof of smoke. Again I looked down at her and her at me, but this time a smile broke across her face, and my heart went from sinking to melting. Sure she was now working for the Dark Lord, but she was still my daughter. I gathered her up in my arms, kissed her forehead, and set her back in her bed with the admonition to stay there till morning, which no doubt fell on deaf ears, and then returned to bed myself.
It has been nearly a year since the incident and not many nights have passed that she hasn’t ended up in mine and my wife’s bed in the middle of the night, and there isn’t anything in our house less than three feet from the ground that hasn’t been pulled to the floor or covered in whatever she was supposed to be eating, but that is the way of things. I understand that we, the parents, are the ones to blame; always encouraging them as they move from one stage to the next – rolling, crawling, walking – cheering them on along the way. However I should say that as she has learned we too have learned some lessons and we won’t be making the same mistake again. Our month old son will stay strapped on his back till he can communicate and understand, and we’ll not be dissuade by tears, screaming, or bedsores.
Stick that in your pipe and smoke it Satan.
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